Obloquy
by Spark Writer
Summary: Sherlock insults John. This is an understatement.


_(A/N): obloquy - censure, blame, or abuse aimed at a person or thing_

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_..._

Sherlock insults John. This is an understatement.

The detective will be going along with his day: slicing toes on a cutting board, examining DNA samples in the bathtub, arranging their crockery according to colour, or clacking swiftly away at his laptop when suddenly, without warning, all pretense will drop and he'll spin about and pinion John in a glare of such epic vitriol it dazzles.

"Idiot," he'll spit, whirling over to the sofa and collapsing upon it in a wrathful heap. "Why do you insist on reading that rubbish?"

John will shrug, nonplussed, and continue perusing the creased newsprint.

"It's going to melt your neural pathways and make you even dafter than you already are. Basically, John, you are insuring your own stupidity. Well done." Sherlock will fold his arms tightly over his chest, squirming a bit in his silky indigo dressing gown.

John will smile. Laugh a little, perhaps. And go right on ignoring his venomous flatmate. Because he was a soldier and he killed people, and if he was able to face the danger, difficulty and devastation of war, he most certainly can deal with a few unsavoury invectives from Sherlock bloody Holmes.

...

"You've always been a substandard writer, John, but this is utter drivel."

Sherlock is at his shoulder, sharp elbow pressed into John's side as he leans in for a closer look at the blog post John is editing.

"Thanks for that."

Sherlock rolls his verdigris eyes at the ceiling; his expression one of blended horror and ennui. He reaches over, pushing John's hand roughly away from the keyboard.

"Oi!"

"Shut up, it's obvious you need some assistance."

"No, actually, I—"

"You've left out a comma. What is so challenging to you about the concept of the Oxford comma?"

"Listen, Sherlock, if I was constantly hung up on the rules of punctuation I would never get a damn thing done. That's why I go back later and edit. I have a process and you're meddling with it. Which, by the way, is very annoying, so please just go back to your mould cultures and leave me be. Alright?"

A voluminous huff follows this interjection and Sherlock stomps off to the kitchen, putting his protective goggles back on with a snap. "John, I am not going to have a battle of wits with you when you've clearly entered unarmed."

John snorts. "How long did it take to come up with that one?"

Blessedly, Sherlock doesn't reply.

...

"Forty, chain smoker, strangulation."

It's pouring down rain and John is holding an umbrella over Sherlock as he kneels on the damp pavement above the dead woman, searching for traces of her killer's DNA. "Oh no, no, no, no."

"Sorry, what?"

"What makes you think it was strangulation?"

"Well, the ligature marks on her neck, obviously. The murderer must have used some sort of rope or wire to—"

"Wrong. The evidence suggests otherwise." Sherlock peers into her mouth. "Her tongue isn't enlarged as it would be if she'd been strangled to death. Moreover, her windpipe is still relatively intact and her carotid artery has not been obstructed." He sits back on his heels and squints up at John. "This tells us that while her assailant tightened a cord of some sort around her neck for a sustained period of time, the strangulation wasn't what killed her. Something else did." He extricates his pocket magnifier from the Belstaff and flicks a bit of dust from it. "You should be ashamed. John. You really are living up to your hair colour."

"Piss off."

"You're so predictably volatile." Sherlock's lips curl, verging on a grin, and John wrestles with a sudden and rather profound urge to punch him in the face. Right there, while all of Scotland Yard looks on. Instead, he counts to ten in Pashtu and squares his shoulders. Right.

"I am not going to be your punching bag while we're on a case, Sherlock," he mutters, so close to his flatmate that his lips nearly brush the shell of Sherlock's ear. "Pull yourself together or I'm going home and you can deal with whatever comes along on your own."

Sherlock flashes him an icy scowl. "That would be of no consequence."

"Fine, then." John steps back, taking the umbrella with him. He feels enormously pleased when the downpour has Sherlock soaked in a matter of seconds. "I'm getting a cab. Good luck with all of this."

He marches away and doesn't look back.

...

John learns early on that Sherlock's insults are not confined to the English language.

"Le cerveau il etait en option chez toi!"

The detective's accent is impeccable and his voice appallingly deep, a lavish growl that sends heat rippling up John's spine.

He resolves to clog the bathroom drain more frequently.

"Kutubare!"

Sherlock's Japanese is bright and prickly, spoken with textbook precision, a not at all unwelcome soundtrack to John's day.

He messes with Sherlock's sock index a few more times just to confirm it.

"Sie dumm fuhrt!"

They're sat in a dingy little coffee shop going over case details when Sherlock adds German to his budding repertoire. Despite the searing burn of the Darjeeling he's just spilled on his upper thigh, John can't help but be reverently grateful for Sherlock's polyglot outbursts.

He does an admirable job of keeping a steady voice when Sherlock fixes him with a scrutinizing glare and demands to know why he has gone red in the face.

"Gran' disgraziato!"

As it turns out, French, Japanese, and German are no match for Sherlock's Italian, which rolls off his tongue as though he was born in the Vatican, fierce and fluid, sinfully elegant. It reduces John's brain to the state of a Sunday pudding.

He refuses to fetch Sherlock his mobile.

"Ti ammazzo!"

"Ha, no. Get it yourself." His heart feels tingly and overlarge beneath his ribs. He blames it on Sherlock, lithe and pale in that goddamn dressing gown, snarling in a delicious Italiano baritone.

"Cretino!" Sherlock flails over to his coat—draped haphazardly across the table—and yanks his phone from the pocket. "Idiot."

John sips his tea. "I'd agree with you, but then we'd both be wrong."

"Oh, shut up," says Sherlock, in English, and his eyes are on fire, inflamed from the afternoon sunshine streaming through the windows.

John has to catch his breath.

...

He descends the stairs from his bedroom one morning to find Sherlock sprawled on the sofa. Face down. Like some over-sized, petulant toddler.

He says nothing as John shuffles into the kitchen and begins making tea.

"Morning," says John, amiably enough, because last night was the first night in a long while he didn't wake up in the throes of a nightmare, blood and sand filling his head. "You get any sleep?"

A grunt from the sitting room is the only reply.

"Care to elaborate?" John drops a bag of Earl Grey into his RAMC mug and glances over his shoulder at Sherlock's prone form.

"Nghgghhh."

"Sorry, you'll have to speak clearer than that."

"Booored." The O is drawn out, more a gusty sigh than anything.

"No case on?"

"It's not that," Sherlock snips, dragging himself into an upright position. "Last night was hell."

"Why?"

"Because of your asinine rules."

"My—what?" John cracks an egg against the rim of the frying pan. The yolk sizzles cheerily.

Sherlock plucks the Union Jack pillow from John's chair and clutches it to his chest, trapping John in a brutal glower. "Do you not remember? Two months ago you started insisting that if I refused to turn in before dawn like a normal person—" He pitches his tone in a startlingly accurate impression of John's voice— "I'd have to do something quiet instead. No loud experiments. No explosions or bangs or blasts."

"Well, forgive me for having such heartlessly unrealistic standards." John swipes butter onto his toast, shaking his head. "There are plenty of quiet things to entertain yourself with, Sherlock."

"Oh, because miming my arpeggios above the strings is so bloody entertaining!"

John blinks. "Hang on, I never said you couldn't play your violin."

"Given the fact you seemed so averse to any other noise, I assumed I shouldn't play—"

"No, I didn't mean that. In fact, I'd rather like it if you did."

"Oh." Sherlock's shoulder blades twitch in an aborted shrug. "Well. I'm not going to."

"Of course not." John retreats to his armchair with tea and toast. He balances his plate on the arm and warms his hands around the steaming mug. "That would just give me something to be happy about."

He takes a bite of his toast. "You know, Sherlock, I'm a bit impressed."

"Why?" snaps his flatmate, worrying at a corner of the pillow with his long, pale digits.

"You actually listened to my request."

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, baffled, then his expression melts into one of disbelief. "Oh, please. If you think for a moment that I've been doing this for you you're dreadfully mistaken. Every time one of my experiments makes an explosion you inevitably wake up howling about gunfire and landmines like a delusional fool, which is terrible for my critical thinking. So, I decided that complying with your silly wishes was actually best for me on the whole."

John stares at him. Swallows. Puts his tea down very carefully on the side table before pushing himself out of his chair and striding over to the door, wrenching his coat off the hook.

"I've upset you."

"Yes, Sherlock, well spotted." John shrugs into the leather and corduroy, hand perfectly steady. "God, you're such a child."

"You're the one flouncing off!" snarls Sherlock, drawing his knees to his chest with a savage jerk. "Idiot."

"Yeah? At least I'm not a rude, conceited bastard!" He flings the door open and bursts into the landing, nearly colliding with a stunned Mrs Hudson on her way up the stairs.

"Sorry, Mrs H." John gives her an apologetic smile and stumps off down the stairs, Sherlock's gravelly cry of "Fine, piss off then!" chasing him out the door.

...

"You're a pig-headed fool. I told you to keep watch."

"What good is it if we're split up? That's probably just what the killer wants."

"No, now he can murder us both in one go. I told you to keep watch and, in the event of confrontation, provide a distraction so I can—"

"Be quiet." John lays a hand over Sherlock's cupid's bow and blinks in the musty darkness of the supply closet. "Did you hear that?"

The floor boards overhead creak beneath human weight.

"He's coming down here," John breathes. "Have you got your gun?"

"Yes, obviously. Do you really think after all this time spent chasing felons I would actually forget to bring one along?"

John grits his teeth. "Stop this."

"Stop what?"

It's the innocence, the practised naivety, in Sherlock's tone that makes John want to throttle him. "Acting like your arrogance is a virtue."

"Oh, don't start," Sherlock sputters. "You're just as rude, I'm simply more vocal about it."

"Ha!" John's laugh is humourless.

Sherlock tenses beside him, drawing breath for another scathing retort, but John prods him with his elbow.

Someone is in the room beyond the door, moving with almost silent footsteps. The slight intake of breath is the only thing giving them away.

Three…two…one.

In the same moment Sherlock pushes the door open, a man leaps upon them, shoving John aside and pinning the detective against the wall of the cellar with an incongruously skinny arm. A blade gleams in his fist, which he holds to Sherlock's throat.

A burst of igneous panic slams though John and he clambers up gracelessly from the floor and starts forward.

"Stay back!" bellows their killer. "Unless you want to watch me slit his throat."

"Get off him," says John, his heart thrashing. "Or I will shoot."

He raises the Browning for emphasis.

"No," gasps Sherlock. "John—don't."

The killer gives a rasping chuckle in the back of this throat. "That's right. Don't—"

John lunges. He swings his arm and brings the butt of the gun down on the man's balding skull with a satisfying crack.

The murderer buckles and the knife flies out of his hand, skidding across several yards of concrete before clattering against the far wall.

Sherlock makes an incoherent sound of relief and rubs at his neck. A carmine trickle of blood sluices down it and onto his collar, making a shocking contrast to the white button down. John stares at it for a moment, pulse galloping, chest heaving, and then Sherlock does the last thing either of them expects.

He seizes John by the lapels of his coat and kisses him.

It's a rough, furious, enthusiastic affair and John sinks into the clash of tongues and teeth and mouths with vicious gusto.

Seven point three seconds later, Sherlock rips his mouth away from John's and stares at him.

"Sherlock?" John gasps, breathless.

"You," he punctuates each word with a kiss to John's cheeks, forehead, lips, "Are. A. Colossal. Idiot."

"And you have delusions of superiority," John replies, cupping a sharp jaw.

A rubicund flush flares at Sherlock's cheekbones. "Well, you inspired the saying 'the mind is terrible thing to waste.'"

"Piss off, you twat," says John, yanking him into another clumsy, drugging kiss. "You're living proof God has a sense of humour."

After that, Sherlock winds an arm around John's waist and John catches his fingers in those mad curls and it's quite some time before either of them get enough breath to speak again.

...

Sherlock insults John. This is an understatement.

The detective will be going along with his day: tending to the cultures in numerous petris dishes, dissecting a ruptured spleen, labeling microscope slides, or measuring the rate at which the human body enters hypothermia when suddenly, without warning, all pretense will drop and he'll spin about and pinion John in a glare of such epic vitriol it dazzles.

"Idiot," he'll spit, flailing to John's side in a chaos of gangly limbs and sapphire dressing gown. "Yesterday's blog was utterly abysmal. The Vanishing Teapot? Really?"

John will shrug, nonplussed, and continue pecking away in his unhurried fashion.

"You really ought to learn how to type properly, John. I can't have a colleague who works at such glacially sluggish speeds. I'll have to find someone else." Sherlock will tug at his thicket of curls, vibrating irritation.

"You need me. I'm your doctor."

"Mm. I'm beginning to think a monkey armed with a first-aid kit would do."

John will smile. Laugh a little, perhaps. And pull his rancorous flatmate into a kiss. Because he was a soldier and he killed people, and if he was able to survive bullets, bloodstains, and the burn of the Afghan sun, he most certainly can deal with a few insults from Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
